


"Where am I going? Crazy. Wanna come?"

by dancergrl1



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, S1E1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 18:53:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14267406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancergrl1/pseuds/dancergrl1
Summary: Ginny opens up to mike about what happened the night after her first game.





	"Where am I going? Crazy. Wanna come?"

“Again”

_ Thud _

“Again”

_ Thud _

Every time the ball hits my father’s glove, I feel more centered. I start to analyze my performance today, my abilities to make it in the big leagues, and my resolve of how much longer I can take the ribbing and anger of my new teammates in the locker room. And I get angrier with every thud of the ball hitting the glove. And my dad’s voice, just saying that single word, never telling me to stop or fix anything. I throw pitch after pitch, doing what I should have been able to do during today’s game.

I should’ve had a better game

_ Thud _

I should’ve been able to deal with the pressure

_ Thud _

I should’ve been able to throw a decent pitch

_ Thud _

I should’ve been able to block out their comments

_ Thud _

“Again”

I get angry. 

I get even. I throw my hardest one, stand up, and glance at the clock over the door. In the window, who else should be pulling a peeping tom but Mike Lawson. I stalk over and yank the door a little harder than I should.

“What do you want, Lawson?”

“Heard someone down here, been telling the guys it’s haunted, thought I’d look for it myself.” 

“Very funny. Why are you actually down here?”

“Depends, why are you angry?”

I’m immediately defensive. “Why do you say that?”

Lawson smirks and rolls his eyes. “Maybe the way you practically ripped the door off the hinges when you opened it, or the way that your last pitch probably topped your fastball, so I ask again, Why are you angry?”

I march out the door, careful to open it normally, and start on my way down the hallway. His voice, laughing yet concerned, an odd balance to strike, calls after me.”Where are you going?”

“Crazy. Wanna come?”

I whip around, hand on a hip defiantly, daring him to ask me what I mean. His response surprises me, however.

“I'm practically the gatekeeper, but if you're going there anyways, I could use a walk.”

I roll my eyes, turn, and start walking down the hallway. He’s taking longer strides to catch up with me, and within no time he's caught up.

“Tell me why you’re going crazy, and I might be cajoled into telling you my story.”

I debate with myself, what the consequences would be for me telling him what’s going through my head, why I’m seeing my dead father in the practice room, in the stands, even on the field. They’d probably send me back down, even try to give me a severance package before I’d even gotten my chance to play. Gotten the chance to live my dream. Mike stops and looks at me.

“Well?”

I make the decision, and respond accordingly. 

“It’s a long story, wanna get a drink?”

He follows me back to my hotel, and we take a seat in the deserted bar. For the second time tonight, I check a clock. It’s only quarter after midnight. That would explain why it’s still open. It runs through my mind we’re going to have practice tomorrow morning, we’re going to be hungover and exhausted. But nonetheless, we order our drinks. 

Mike takes a deep draught of his, and looks at me, stone-faced. 

“Well, here’s our drinks, and here’s me, so...”

I begin. “I’ve been playing ball since i was a kid. My dad was trying to teach my brother in the backyard. Mom starting yelling, and he said “I’m tryin’ to raise a ball player!” I walked over, maybe three at the time, and picked up the ball instead. Dad encouraged me to throw it, and it grew from there. Every time I tried out and got to another level, I’d always be excited and tell my dad “We’re doing it, Pop!” He’d always look back at me, soberly and somber, and respond “we ain't done nothing yet.” On the way home from one of my games, we were in an accident. I walked away, dad wasn’t so lucky. I’ve felt him with me though, you know? I knew he was with me first game, disappointed with my performance. I know he was the one who spurred me into the practice room. He was the one telling me to throw again. And again. And again. He was there, as real as you are to me. Except...I know he wasn’t there. He’s gone.”

Mike sits in stunned silence for a second. I start to react, gather up my stuff, shrug everything on, and these are what spurs him into action. 

“Where are you going, Baker? What are you doing?”

“Leaving, before you call the management team in front of me and tell them ‘m not stable. Not ready to play in any capacity.” I mutter, sure that will be his next course of action. 

“What?”  Mike seems genuinely stunned. “That wasn’t what I was going to do.”

“Right.” I toss the word his way, eyes examining my drink, the color of the bar counter, the scratches on the edge from wedding rings or other things that had hit the surface. 

“Baker, look at me.”

I refuse, not wanting him to see my face, drawn with exhaustion and red from shame.

“Ginny.” The word is filled with comfort, remorse, and a little steel. I raise my head and look towards him. 

“We all have our motivations. Today was a bundle of nerves, along with pressure. But I meant what I said on the mound. You’re a ball player. Don’t worry about the girls, the fans, the audience. Focus on the game.”

I nod and feel the exhaustion sweep over me and my eyes cross. Mike notices.

“You need to get to bed, you’re crashing hard.”

“Crashing?” I laugh. 

“Adrenaline. After today’s game, your workout, our talk, and everything else, you’ve been on a high all day.”

I shake my head. He’s talking too fast for me to understand. 

I feel him propel me towards the elevators, into it, and feel us begin to travel upwards.

“Where’s your keycard, Baker?” 

His gruff attitude is back, and it snaps me back to myself. I take it out of my pocket, where I’d tucked it when i left, and swipe it into the reader. The door opens, and he’s stuck awkwardly, half in, half out of the room. I tiredly wave him in.

“Are you sure?”

I look pointedly towards the couch, and tell him “It’s better than driving back to your bachelor pad, crashing there, and having to get up and drive back. Your precious car will be fine for one night.” 

He laughs and makes himself comfortable on the couch. “Goodnight, baker”.

I’m already asleep.

***

The next morning, we arrive separately. I walk onto the field, and look around, taking it in. I look behind me, and my dad is there. We don’t say anything, and smile at each other. 

***

The game begins, and I think about what Mike has said. 

“You’re a ball player.” 

I play the best game I can, and when i watch the rerun of the game, I hear what the commentator said as he watched me jog off the field for the night. “Welcome to the big leagues, Ginny Baker. We’ve been waiting for you.”


End file.
